Agnus Dei
by SanctumDaemon
Summary: In a world where all "abnormals" are to be killed at birth, Gilbert is discovered, taken into prison and called a demon. Matthew is the son of the priest who is condemning the abnormals, commonly called an angel. When the two fall in love...
1. Meeting

**Prologue**

"_Pater noster, qui es in caelis:_

_ sanctificetur Nomen Tuum;_

_ adveniat Regnum Tuum;_

_ fiat voluntas Tua,_

_ sicut in caelo, et in terra._

_ Panem nostrum cotidianum da nobis hodie;_

_ et dimitte nobis debita nostra,_

_ sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris;_

_ et ne nos inducas in tentationem;_

_sed libera nos a Malo_

_scuto amoris divini_. _Amen_. "

Matthew's quiet voice echoed the others as the service concluded. He opened his curiously coloured light violet eyes and subconsciously adjusted his glasses. Filing out of the pews with everyone else, he was somewhat grateful to exit the cold solemn interior of the church. Outside it was still chilly - it was winter after all - but the sun's soft rays provided some warmth, peeking out from the grey clouds almost wistfully. Looking up at the clouds, Matthew frowned and pulled his coat a bit tighter around him, savoring what little warmth the flimsy clothing generated. Alfred had taken the warmer fur coat with him, leaving him with only a light, cloth jacket. As always, he headed off to the town centre to buy supplies for his father, who was a minister with the local church. But now, and for the last few weeks, he had been taking the trek alone - Alfred wasn't with him anymore.

Alfred was the older brother, the popular one. Everyone liked Alfred, and Father had high hopes for him. Matthew was always forgotten, the invisible one hidden under Alfred's shadow. The only time he shone was when he sang in the choir, his sweet voice spreading the words of God. People would call him an angel, even his strict father, and as usual, he would blush at the compliments and shrink back, unnoticed again, into the crowd. He had sometimes wondered what it would be like if Alfred didn't exist, whether Father would notice him more. Immediately he felt guilty again - he really was _too_ innocent - because it _had_ come true. Alfred had run away with Arthur not too long ago, for the sake of their "love."

"Disgusting," his father had called it, "utterly repulsive."

Now, Matthew felt so lonely - Alfred was the only one who ever remembered him outside of choir, and he had always included him whenever someone left him out. Father was so infuriated with Alfred, he had decreed that even his very _name_ was taboo. All reminders of him - drawings, stories, cliques he had founded - were removed. He had disgraced Father, rejected their society, and for it he would never be remembered for anything ever again. Matthew was lonely, yes, but most of all he was terribly bitter. Alfred had everything Matthew had ever wanted - popularity, friends, _acknowledgement_ - and he had thrown all of it away. He had thrown all of it away, and for what? _Love?_ Matthew shook his head, looking down at his feet.

He sighed, tucking a stray lock of curled blonde hair. Life was so bland and routine, the same things day after day. Sometimes he nursed ideas - sinful ideas - of "could have been" and "maybe." What if he had gone with Alfred and Arthur? What would he be doing then? Matthew snapped out of his thoughts and quickly muttered a prayer for his soul under his breath. He reminded himself of the grave consequences and shivered.

If he had gone with them, he would surely be destined for damnation, to burn in the flames of Hell. Homosexuality was considered one of the most abhorrent crimes against God, after all, it was unnatural and unlawful - against how He had created them to be. Vivid images of Hell were painted across the chapel wall (and of Heaven as well), spread across the ceiling. Many a time had Matthew wondered if he would ever make it there – wherever "there" was. The others called him "Angel" - the name was a cage. People expected him to be naïve, innocent, kind - pure. On the inside though, he felt so guilty - he was nothing like that. The name was like a mask that he hid behind. Had anyone known of his thoughts, he would have been beaten and whipped until he bled - and he would have deserved it. Lost in his thoughts, Matthew continued staring at his feet as he walked, head lowered solemnly.

"Ah!" He let out a little cry of surprise as he bumped into something - no, _someone_ - and fell down onto the hard, cobbled road. He rubbed his arm painfully.

"O-oh, I beg your pardon! I wasn't w-watching where I was going." Matthew mumbled a feeble apology. He looked up sheepishly.

The stranger was tall and cloaked, the dark shadows from his dark hood obscuring his features. He offered a rough calloused hand and Matthew gratefully accepted it. He was about to thank him but the words caught in his throat when he caught the stranger's gaze. They were bright scarlet, the color of blood, or perhaps fire. The color caught Matthew off-guard, and he backed up uncertainly, not sure to trust this strange man who had the eyes of…of a_ demon_. He snuck another cautious glance and quickly took back his previous thoughts - they weren't _exactly_ the colour of blood, or fire, as he had thought - or anything else he could think of, either. He couldn't describe it as scarlet or crimson, just a perfect shade in between, rich with tones and highlights of pink and yellow. Matthew could do nothing but stare, in horrified wonder, at the unnatural color of them.

Something uncertain, doubt, or fear perhaps, flickered across the stranger's face when Matthew met his scarlet eyes. Matthew's caution must have shown on his face, because the stranger caught the slight shifting of his eyes. The stranger drew back his hand quickly, as if he was touching fire and ran off, taking long quick strides, leaving Matthew very confused. Did he do something wrong? Groaning a little he picked himself up and continued on his way.

Suddenly, he paused. Red eyes...and Matthew had sworn he had seen a strand of white-silver hair peeking out from the hood. Was he an albino? Matthew gulped fearfully and looked at the direction he had ran off in. He remembered the tales his father had told him - albinos were the offspring of demons, forbidden, violent monsters. They violated God's code and they were said to have no thoughts except for blood-lust. He thought back to his encounter - he was sure the stranger had borne no ill will towards him. He tucked the thought away in his head and continued his walk to the town centre - something in his gut shifted uncomfortably and told him that was not the last time he would see the stranger.

_Why did it come to this?_ Gilbert stared at the body lying at his feet, forcing himself to look away from the pooling blood and the obsidian knife in his hand. He was just a boy, he had just killed a boy...Gilbert sank to his knees, horrified. Gulping back waves of nausea, he bent down to close the eyes of his victim, God help his soul. His short light blonde - almost white - hair was matted and stained with crimson and his dark purple eyes stared vacantly until Gilbert covered them, cupping them with his hands. He had a scarf wrapped around his neck, absorbing some of the blood and slowly turning bright red. The eyes haunted him; the boy's voice taunted him as he stumbled away from the crime scene.

"_Demon! Worshipper of Satan!"_ The labels that were branded onto him with those hateful eyes…

_God, please forgive me!_ He had to do it… the boy had found him; saw his red eyes, his strange pale skin, his unnatural white hair. The boy was one of those Puritans, the extremist religious faction that was trying to kill him, and…and "his kind." With his appearance, there was no way he wouldn't be condemned to death. No matter what he said, what he _did_, they would simply twist his word back on him, tormenting him and sentencing him to death. Was it so wrong to want to live?

He shook his head dizzily, crossing himself messily. He recited the words his priest had taught him, blinking back tears.

"_In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen."_

He quickly murmured a short prayer, stumbling over some of the Latin words. He wasn't even supposed to speak the sacred language, but he found solace in his religion that had ostracized him all his life, attending Mass faithfully every day, under the disguise of his dark cloak. He clasped his hands together and recited the words his priest had taught him. His priest…before the Revolution had started, he had helped Gilbert and taught him much. When the onset of the Revolution had started, he had been killed – slaughtered in front of Gilbert's eyes for daring to help an "abnormal" – anyone, not just albinos were killed, excuses half-heartedly accepted before the cycle of blood started over again. These were dangerous times, and any comfort was treasured.

"_MEMORARE, O piissima Virgo Maria,_

_ non esse auditum a saeculo, quemquam ad tua currentem praesidia,_

_ tua implorantem auxilia, tua petentem suffragia,_

_ esse derelictum._

_ Ego tali animatus confidentia,_

_ ad te, Virgo Virginum, Mater, curro,_

_ ad te venio, coram te gemens peccator assisto._

_ Noli, Mater Verbi,_

_verba mea despicere;_

_ sed audi propitia et exaudi._

_ Amen."_

He was an idiot, a bloody idiot. The irony wasn't lost on him, and Gilbert found himself holding back a dark smile. He was everything _they_ said he was now, wasn't he? He was a filthy murderer, eyes red and mad with evil intent. He felt horrible, his insides gnawing at him furiously. Gilbert recognized the feeling as guilt, and slumped down as he ran into an abandoned alley, hugging his knees to his chest. What was the kid's name? Ivan? The Russian kid had never liked his kind. Gilbert held back a sob as he checked his bloodstained face, reminders of what had just taken place. He did the only thing he could do – he ran.

As much as Gilbert tried to convince himself that it was the only thing he could do, doubt ate at him. Did he have to kill him? Couldn't he just have fled? All because of a stupid mistake...he'd bumped into a boy from Mass – Matthew, was it? - who had noticed his eyes. He'd panicked and ran, and his hood had come off at some point, and Ivan just _had_ to been there - at the wrong place, wrong time - to scream and call him a demon. He had just reacted instinctively, whether it was from anger, or the urge to eliminate all threats - he wasn't sure. He remembered it in excruciating detail - he had clamped the boy's mouth shut and wrapped his elbow around his throat, pulling him into a dark, twisted alleyway and pushing against the wall, knocking the wind out of Ivan, who couldn't have been any more than 14. Gilbert felt sick, remembering the cloying feeling of the blade sinking into the soft flesh…the wet sound when he pulled it out, and the dark satisfaction he had gotten when Gilbert had watch him fall slowly and crumple to the ground as his hateful eyes unfocused, still clouded with fear…

The albino swallowed the bile rising in his throat, fighting the urge to vomit. They were right, they were all right. He was an instinctive murderer - he couldn't deny that it had felt so _natural_ when he had sunk the blade into Ivan's stomach, rejoicing darkly in the muffled screams of his victim, feeling the pulse slow and eventually stop, his arm still around his victim's neck. The scarlet had looked so pretty, contrasting Gilbert's pale skin… Minutes later, Gilbert had snapped out of his trance, senses returning to him as he stared in horror at the bloody scene in front of him. He tried to keep any further thoughts of this out of his head, and simply kept walking, slowing to a limp, breaths coming in ragged gasps, head spinning.

_Nearly there...Ludwig__'s place__ is only a few houses away_…

He struggled on, looking and feeling very much like a drunk, swaying and leaning on the dirty walls for support. Sometimes he thought he would collapse but he would prop himself up again. Finally he reached the only safe haven he had – the relative safety of his dear brother's house.

"_Bruder_! _Öffne die Tür_!" He hammered at the door for good measure, leaning on the other side of it and staring blankly at the wooden gate, his eyes clouded and unfocused.

"_Bruder_…"

A few moments later, the heavy wooden door swung open to reveal a rather annoyed, tall and well-built man. His short blonde hair was cleanly slicked back but a few strands dared to defy the rest. His sky blue eyes were bright but a little tired looking, his grave face added to his stoic impression - and to think that Ludwig was the younger brother.

Ludwig sighed. Gilbert was probably drunk or hung-over – probably both, if he knew his brother correctly.

"_Was_, Gilbert?"

Wordlessly, Gilbert bundled Ludwig into the house before coming in himself, slamming the door shut and locking the bolt into place.

"_Bruder_, what is it?" Ludwig asked again, a little concerned with his brother's behaviour. He saw small bloodstains on Gilbert's clothing and skin and stiffened.

Gilbert said nothing, instead throwing up, his back bent over the sink uncomfortably. After emptying the contents of his stomach, he was still feeling his throat spasm painfully. When it finally ended, he was lying on the tile kitchen floor, blinking back tears and clutching his throat. There was a disgusting sour taste in his mouth.

_God must be punishing __me, _he thought.

"W-water." He managed to croak out, his throat burning from the acid, head aching dangerously.

"_Bruder,_ what's wrong? Are you drunk? Sick? Poisoned?" Ludwig asked as he brought back the requested water in a mug.

Ludwig had stayed beside him the whole time, comforting him, watching in dismay. Once again, Ludwig's gaze strayed to the blood on Gilbert's face, casting a worried glance at his brother. He closed the window, making sure no one could see his illegal brother - all "abnormals" were to be killed at birth. Gilbert was an exception, kept alive by his father's high social status and his mother's kindness. After their mother had died, their father had always wanted Gilbert dead - preferably as painfully as possible. After all, he was just another stain on his "spotless" record, an abomination.

Gilbert hesitated before speaking - how would Ludwig react? But he was his brother, after all, and he couldn't lie to his brother. He drank the water gratefully and gave the mug back, getting shakily to his feet.

"_Bruder, _you should get some re-" Gilbert cut Ludwig off with a silencing wave of his hand.

"...I k-killed a boy." He was having some trouble saying it out loud. Admitting it to someone else made it all the more real – it became reality, more than just a bad nightmare. The image of the body flashed beneath his eyelids. He shuddered and put his hands on the wall again, steadying his shaking body. The nausea was back with a vengeance, but Gilbert bit it back as best he could and forced himself to look into the eyes of his brother.

"Killed?" Ludwig was shocked, but there was no disbelief in his stoic gaze. It was ridiculous, yes, but Gilbert wouldn't joke about something like that. He looked deadly serious, and he looked quite traumatized. Ludwig swallowed nervously, fidgeting about. If he had a killer in his house...

"..._Ja, bruder_…I'm a murderer. A boy, barely 14 - he saw me. He tried to report me to those damn Puritans that are going around eliminating all abnorm- …my kind. I guess I'm just another fucking murderer, huh? Maybe they were right about me after all..."

They called him a murderer, a demon. He laughed darkly - he'd become exactly what they were trying to condemn him for. He laughed again, a low chuckle that steadily rose in pitch till he was in hysterics. Gilbert punched the wall, his fists raw and bleeding. Ludwig swallowed nervously - was his brother going crazy? Gilbert was acting as if he had lost all semblance of rational thought…

"Calm down, Gilbert." His request was unheeded.

"Gilbert!" He tried to grasp his brother's shaking shoulders and force them to be still. But he just threw back his head and laughed harder, tears streaming from his open eyes. His eyes were unfocused and clouded, but Ludwig could see the self-disgust and anger written in them.

"Gilbert!" Ludwig slapped Gilbert, trying to bring him out of it.

If Ludwig thought Gilbert's hysteria was frightening, his sudden, still, slumped quiet was worse. He was like the living dead, his eyes red and tired, staring at something only he could see. His brother trembled, tears streaming down his cheeks, leaning on Ludwig's hands on his shoulders. He muttered something under his breath.

"…I-I'm just as bad as they say I am, aren't I? I'm just a useless, murderous _monster_. You think so too, don't you? I've seen it in your damn eyes, _bruder._ Don't fucking lie to me!" Gilbert talked louder and louder until he was yelling at his brother, tears not once stopping. He sobbed slightly and sniffed.

Ludwig was clueless on what to say. He hesitated, deliberating his options. Then quietly he picked him up. Gilbert didn't struggle, going limp in his brother's arms, sobbing into Ludwig's shoulder.

"I'll take you to your room, _bruder_."

_Why? Why?_ The question echoed in Gilbert's mind as he ran through the darkening streets. His bare feet were torn, dirty and bleeding. His breath came in ragged gasps and his lungs ached for oxygen. He didn't know where he was going - he just had to escape - to get away from here. He could hear them, their yells, and the flickering lights of their torches. He took a glimpse backwards, they haven't caught up yet. He had a chance.

Why was he trying so hard? Why did he want to live so badly? He didn't deserve life...he didn't deserve any damn minute of it. So why didn't he just fucking _die_ already? He thought back to that morning…

"Hey Ludwig, open the door will you? I want to pop out for a bit." He casually asked, bored from lying in bed all day. He hadn't recovered fully from the shock or guilt of killing yet, and he was still weak. He wanted to see the sun's rays again - he doubted they had sunshine wherever he was going.

"Hey Ludwig? _Bruder?_" Where was his damn brother? Why wasn't he saying anything? Gilbert scowled, a little irritated, and was about to repeat himself when he was interrupted by his brother walking through the open door, a sad, distant look on his face.

"_Entschuldigung, _Gilbert…but you're a murderer."

His eyes widened with shock as he took in the scene in front of him. Ludwig paced out of the room, and he could hear his brother speaking to someone, probably the church minister - Father Williams, was it? Gilbert's fears had come alive and swallowed him whole, disjointed thoughts running through his head – _Ludwig__hates__me__ - afraid __of__him__ - turned __in__Puritans._

_Like father, like son_, Gilbert thought, crimson eyes flashing across the room.

The only person that he thought had cared for him had left him to die at the hands of the Church - had practically condemned him to die. Gilbert knew that his chances of surviving this were small, but he _had_ to get out of there _now_. The red eyes that had caused him so much misfortune darted around the room, stopping at the window.

It was only the second story, and there was a smaller outcrop at the first level. He prayed that this would work, running over to the window and swinging himself over the windowsill, letting himself drop onto the outcrop with a loud thud.

_This thing better not__ fucking__ break on me!_ Awkwardly crawling to the edge of the ledge, he looked for some soft place to land, and found...nothing. Gritting his teeth, Gilbert asked himself what he had expected. A nice mattress to fall onto? He swore loudly. He strained to hold himself to the edge while narrowing the gap between him and the ground as much as possible, then he let go. The impact jarred his unprotected feet and he stumbled, almost tripping his feet.

"Lady Luck, you're a fickle bitch," he swore as he noticed the crowd gathered at the front of the house. He could hear their insults, their tone, the way they sent stabs of pain and guilt through his body. He kept telling himself that he was okay, that as long as he still felt guilt that he was still human, still normal...

"Kill the demon! Kill the demon! The murderer of my child!" He knew they were right - he was a murderer, a demon. Did that give them the right condemn him, though? They knew nothing about him. These so-called "Puritans" - what right to they have to go around preaching their "words of God?"

_They kill - they kill people like me, and say it's right 'cause we're different. Fucking hypocrites - don't they say we're all family or some shit like that? 'Cause I sure as hell don't see them killing their kids as very familial - but hey, don't take it from me, I'm just the friendly neighborhood demon. _Gilbert's thoughts raced as fast as his feet, churning impossibly quickly. Sink or swim, fight or flight - it was an instinct, and Gilbert just let it take over and control him.

He ran - if he stayed there any longer, he would snap and go up to those people and spit their words back into their face. That was suicide, and he wanted to live. He had a head start; they wouldn't realize that he was gone yet - if he could just get out of the city... He didn't have his hood, so he wouldn't be able to get a lift - at least from any sane person. He'd have to go by feet, during the night, and hiding during the day. Even better, maybe he could steal a hood. That could come later - for now, he just ran. Though he was running for his life, he relished the way the wind beat against his face - the speed, the freedom, to just let his legs carry him wherever he wanted.

Gilbert didn't know how long it had been, but he was racing down unfamiliar streets, and turning into shady alleys. The only light that illuminated the city came from the crescent moon and the weak oil lights laid out on the sidewalks. His eyes adjusted easily to the darkness – they were extremely sensitive to the sun, as was his skin, and Gilbert had always felt the most at ease in the darkness.

_Dammit! There are people over there!_ He ran in the opposite direction but also could see the light their fire cast on the walls.

_Shit!_ He took a third fork but it was another dead end. Tall buildings loomed on either side; there was nothing he could climb - fuck, dammit! He could hear them, closer and closer, their shouts and the pandemonium they were making soon overpowered the rapid thumps of his heart. He was trapped, like a rat - a pest to be exterminated. He finally gave up, leaning his back on the wall, slowly slumping down. He faced the encroaching crowd with a smile, closing his eyes and praying as he was jerked roughly to his feet and his world went black.

"_Domine Iesu, dimitte nobis debita nostra, salva nos ab igne inferiori, perduc in caelum omnes animas, praesertim eas, quae misericordiae tuae maxime indigent..."_

Matthew found himself half lying on the table, half sitting in his chair with a drool soaked sleeve.

_I fell asleep? On the dinner table?_ He rubbed his sleep filled eyes and readjusted the glasses that had hung askew across his face. He frowned a little, trying to remember why he was there. He took off his jacket and threw it into the wash bin.

_Ah! I was waiting for __F__ather to return and I fell asleep…_ he flushed, feeling a little silly. The regular ticking of his father's pocket watch filled the silence that Matthew sat in. He snuck a quick glance at the clock. 1 o' clock?

_Why is __F__ather so late?_ The racket outside was growing and it drew his attention.

He opened the front door a crack, shivering as cold air found its way in. Outside, the town's people lined the sides of the streets. What exactly was going on? He huddled his arms closer to his chest.

"Um, excuse me?" He tried to ask the closest person to him, a middle aged lady that he had seen around before.

He went unnoticed, as usual.

"Excuse me?" He asked again, a little louder, and yet still she paid him no attention. He sighed, and decided that he would have a look for himself. Pushing into the crowd he was jostled and squashed but finally came out on the other side. The streets were empty, but somewhere, in the distance, he could make out the faint orange flames of torch bearers and the noise of the people that were already gawking at whatever spectacle was being paraded. The procession slowly drew closer; he could see his father at the lead, describing the demon he had caught.

"Demon, eh?" he muttered under his breath. Matthew doubted whether it was a real demon - surely such a true sinful creature would have slaughtered them all already?

And then he caught sight of him. The "demon" was a ragged looking youth, the scraps that covered him were filthy and bloodstained, and his head hung in defeat. He had been beaten and lashed, and his eyes were clouded, almost feral. Heavy iron chains wrapped around his thin pale limbs, occasionally used to tug him along. The only unusual feature was the unruly mop of pure white hair, but even that was tainted with dirt and dried blood. In Matthew's opinion, he looked more like a fallen angel. He was still staring when the albino turned and their eyes met for a split second, both widening in recognition. The soft-spoken blonde felt the urge to look away, to break the "demon's" almost magical hold on him. He was mesmerized by the crimson color - and it hit him - he was the boy from earlier, the one with the beautiful red eyes. Matthew could see so much pain and a haunted, hurt, expression on his face - almost like an abused animal. The white haired boy whipped his eyes away and the connection was lost. Matthew could almost feel the physical connection breaking, shattering, and it hurt, somehow. The procession passed Matthew and he strained to watch the boy as he was swallowed into the darkness, spit on and jeered at by the rest of the small town.

He had never doubted his religion, but there was one thing Matthew was sure of - that boy was _not_ a demon. He didn't follow the procession, instead going home. He was sure of the fact that _they would meet again_ - and Matthew had _no_ idea what would happen when they did.

**A/N – From Nyx: Whee~ First chapter's up! Enjoy!**

**From Sunny: _**** Hope everyone enjoys it! Oh, and are we supposed to do a disclaimer? Never really got the point of them but everyone seems to do it so; WE DON'T OWN HETALIA!**

**R&R for faster updates! ^_^ I hereby decree that nobody can favorite without reviewing :)**


	2. Imprisoned

Gilbert groaned in pain, waking up in his dark cell. The only light came from a flickering candle mounted on the wall, the flame encased in a semi-dome of glass. He shifted closer to the light and scowled when he saw all the deep lash marks across his pale skin, still stinging days later. They had re-opened past wounds and scars, and the albino still felt his skin crawl and burn every time he moved. His cell was under the church, in the basement as usual for most prisons. Looking around, he saw a slice of dry bread and a bucket of water lying in a corner, and Gilbert gulped down the bread hungrily, sipping a slight bit of water straight from the wooden bucket. He used the rest to clean his many wounds, wincing as he did so. Luckily, there were no rats or vermin in the prison, which was surprisingly well kept. His cell was made of stone, and the rusty iron bars reminded him of the grim situation he was in. There was no way he could pick the thick lock, and the apprentices that came down to the prison never had the keys, passing the food and water through a small gap in the middle of the door. He sighed and bowed his head in resignation. His only friend - his brother - had given up on him. He was a murderer, and he deserved any sentence they gave him.

However, as they said, he was a demon, and demons relied on their instincts. His instinct was to survive, by any means possible.

He growled slightly and took a deep breath, clearing his head. There was one thing he was certain of - if he didn't do something, he was going to die.

Matthew checked the list his father had put out for him, words written in large, elegant cursive. He had already bought all the things listed, and the only thing left for him to do was his daily church work. He grabbed his jacket and walked out the door, watching his breath condense in the cold winter air. He shivered a bit, part in fear and part in cold - he had prison duty today. He'd have to take the food and drink to the prisoners, along with the other apprentices, but today he was the late shift. Matthew sighed, padding up the stone steps and over the threshold, crossing himself as he entered the sacred building. He walked over to the donation bin and slipped in a few coins, as usual, and clasped his hands in front of him, whispering a quick prayer.

Matthew shuffled reluctantly down the prison stairs, entering the dark interior of the jail. He recognized three of the other apprentices, and padded over to join them. Francis, Antonio, and Lovino were all busy rationing out food for the prisoners, idly chatting as they did so. Francis was the first to notice Matthew.

"Ah, bonjour Matieu!" greeted Francis.

"H-Hello." Internally, Matthew cursed himself for his stutter - a prison was definitely not the place to show weakness of any kind.

"Matteo! Come to join us?" Antonio said cheerfully, disregarding the dark atmosphere of the prison like it was a bar during happy hour.

"Yep..."

Lovino was the last to respond. He turned to Antonio with a questioning look and followed his gaze to Matthew, who was smiling sheepishly in the corner.

"Oh, it's you. Fuck off." he said, turning back to his duties.

Matthew rolled his eyes - the Italian was always like that. He walked over and joined the trio in preparing the rations, grimacing slightly as he did so. Antonio gave him an apologetic look and suddenly clung onto Lovino's arm.

"Loviiii~ Don't be so mean to Matteo!" Lovino shook his arm furiously, trying to detach the pouting Spaniard who had decided to perch on it. His face turned bright red.

"Ch-chigi! Don't do that, bastard!"

Next to Matthew, Francis sighed dreamily and muttered something about "l'amour." Matthew shifted uncomfortably. His father had been the one to officially establish the laws against homosexuality, decreeing it filthy and disgusting. That had caused the final break in their family - Alfred had taken enough. He had rebelled not only against their father, but their community, their way of life - he had broken the deadliest of taboos. Matthew sighed. He had seen no wrong in his brother's love, only truth. But, he supposed, if the Church condemned it, then it must have been sinful. As long as Antonio and Lovino weren't like that, Matthew supposed it was fine. They always flirted with the town beauties, anyways.

He finished setting the trays up and picked up a stack.

"I'll take first row, you guys take the rest?" he asked amiably. Nobody ever wanted to serve first row. First row was for the most horrible offenders - murderers, witches, homosexuals. All of first row was condemned to death, usually by hanging. However, his father had told him that any first row offender who repented could escape the death sentence. Matthew pondered what kind of depraved criminal would refuse to repent. His father had always told him to listen to them if they talked, and to try to get them to repent. There had been a few times where he had succeeded, and the criminal had disappeared. Matthew assumed they had been moved out of the prison.

Matthew grabbed the stack of trays and walked down the cramped aisle, shivering slightly in fear as he passed out the rations to the reaching hands extruding from the rusty bars. He walked for what seemed like an hour until he finally reached the end of the corridor. He looked around, wondering who the extra tray belonged to, when he heard a pained moan from behind him.

"Hhhmnnnnn…verdamnt, whose idea was it to invent the whip, anyways? Hey…hey, you. Is that food?" The prisoner sat up slowly and stretched, before standing up and walking over. Matthew gasped in surprise as he saw the red slash marks that covered his back.

The prisoner smiled before turning around, revealing the bloody crisscrossing lashes on his back. He looked at Matthew for a moment, and then spoke.

"So you're that kid, huh? Should've known." He shrugged, albeit a bit painfully, before taking his seat once more.

Matthew continued on staring, lost for words. He had realized that if he was serving the first row; that surely the "demon" would be amongst them. But to actually see him face to face again - his red eyes captivated him as always, though they were duller then he remembered and they had a certain feral glint to them. Matthew shifted uncomfortably.

"Hey Birdie, aren't you gonna give me that food?"

"Eh?" The prisoner's question snapped Matthew out of his thoughts. "B-birdie?" He stuttered in protest of his new nickname.

The prisoner only chuckled.

Blushing furiously, Matthew shrunk back a little, hoping that the dim light wouldn't reveal his crimson face.

"My name is Matthew." He said indignantly. "Not Birdie." He added as an afterthought, trying to show the prisoner that he did not appreciate being called a bird. His whispery soft voice didn't help.

"Birdie suits you. Look at you - all soft and fluffy, and you sing like a bird."

Matthew blushed again, taking time to examine the prisoner's voice. It sounded a little hoarse, and harsh, with a slight lilted accent – German, perhaps?

"Wait - where have you heard me sing?"

"Where do you think? Mass." He said it as if it was obvious and lay down on the lumpy prison bed again, folding his hands over his head.

"Then you're Christian!" Matthew exclaimed - he always knew that the white haired boy couldn't be bad. "My father says that if you repent then God will forgive you!"

The prisoner laughed again, but this time it was without mirth.

"Forgive my ass. What the fuck am I supposed to repent for? Looking like a demon? Killing someone? Well I'm _so_ fucking sorry for being born like this, for killing someone that tried to turn me in to people like _you_! Gottverdammt, you're a fool for believing that anything 'divine' is going to get me out of here. Heaven gave up on me a long time ago - I'm genuinely sorry, but it's not going to change anything is it?" He muttered the last phrase bitterly.

Matthew stood there, shocked into silence by the outburst. It stung. He thought it would work out, even though he had no idea why he was so concerned about a complete stranger. And now he'd just made a fool of himself with his childish stupidity.

"Mathieu? Are you done yet? Your father wants to speak to you!" A certain Frenchman interrupted, reminding Matthew of the job he had all but forgotten about.

"Oh! U-um almost! I'll be done soon!" He called back, wordlessly distributing the food through the metal flaps that were the only decent sized opening in the barred cells.

Hurrying out of the basement, Matthew realized that he never asked for the prisoner's name. "Birdie…" He whispered the name softly to himself, not knowing why it made him tingle with happiness.

"Matthew, what took you so long?" His father was waiting at the entrance to the church. He was in his priest robes, a bible still in hand. His father looked like an older version of Alfred, and Matthew was always reminded of him whenever he looked at his father.

"Sorry Father," he replied, huffing a little for breath. "I was talking to the prisoner, trying to get him to repent, as you asked Father."

"Which one?" His father's tone sharpened, startling him a little.

"Eh? Umm, the one that looks like a demon…white hair, red eyes?"

His father sighed deeply before replying. "Matthew, you are much too innocent, too pure. He can't be saved." A murderous glint appeared in his eyes, frightening Matthew.

"Heaven has decreed that he will die."

* * *

><p><strong>Nyx: There are no words that can possibly express how sorry I am. SORRYYYYYYYY! D: I promise the next chapter will be here VERY soon (this was mostly a filler to get from one chapter to another) and it will be much longer! MUCH longer. I'M SORRY~ TAT *bows down*<strong>

**Sunny: Yesh, need more reviews to feed on for brain power and motivation, then updates will be faster! (XD *subtle implications*)**

**NEITHER OF US OWN HETALIA AS OF YET.**


	3. Catalyst

"Heaven has decreed he will die."

"W-what do you mean? But the, the bible says that…"

Another disappointed look from his father and Matthew abandoned his attempts at defence.

"Obviously it means Heaven, God, has decided that he is fated to die! Do not question me Matthew!" The air was palpable with tension; a challenge rang unspoken in the echo. _'Would you be like Alfred and turn away from me?'_ The meek blonde blinked rapidly, trying to stave off the familiar burning sensation of tears threatening to leak. It would always come to this wouldn't it? He would always be a replacement for Alfred, judged every time he did anything father considered slightly heretical.

Oh god why was he so weak? Crying because of a scolding... he wasn't a little child anymore, he wasn't a girl either. He had to be strong. Clammy tendrils tightened at his throat and he swallowed the feeling away. And he wondered briefly, what it would be like to yell and scream, and vent every thought, injustice and fear that had been steaming away for years. How his father's face would contort as he told him that he didn't give about any of his crap and that he couldn't tell him what to do. Because it wouldn't matter how messed up his life would become after that if they were all going to die anyway. But of course he wouldn't do that. Because in his father, in this argument even, there was the safety of familiarity. He knew how the drill went, Matthew only had to concede his wrong doing, and then he would be forgiven. And in the end, that was what it always came to.

"I'm sorry." His voice was barely a whisper and the attempt was half hearted at best and yet immediately, the atmosphere diffused itself. The sharp shadows the candlelight cast on his father's face suddenly softened and it was safe again.

"I apologise for the outburst, I was a little carried away," his father's voice lowered when he realised that he had scared his precious angel. But to Matthew it was another part of his father that was a little thorn of hate; how he always says sorry at the end and somehow makes him feel guilty.

"I suppose I will have to explain more about demons, you need to understand the threat that they pose. Come." He beckoned for his son to close the distance, the wary gap between them so far. Matthew wordlessly followed, still not meeting his father's eyes. Instead he glanced about the frescos that adorned the chapel walls with paintings of heaven and hell. There was a strange sort of thrill in this forbidden talk. From the ceiling the haloed angels watched with disapproving eyes.

"Demons are fallen angels." His father's voice was deep and powerful, delivering its message easily and echoing in the enclosed space. Matthew truly loved it when he recited prayers; as a child he would listen and learn them.

"Lucifer, an archangel, was jealous and spiteful. He dared to try challenge the power of God, he dared to try rule over the heavens. And for this sin he was cast down into hell! But with him, a multitude of corrupted angels fell as well." His father turned to gesture to the wall behind him. Painted onto the entirety of the wall were the pure white and gold of heaven and the fiery colours of hell. The colours were muted from the overcast day outside and had an orange hue from the light of the flames but it was not difficult imagining what they could have been like on a sun-lit day with the beautiful stain-glass windows. From amongst the gate of clouds figures were falling, they had lost their wings and the lower they had fallen the more grotesque and distorted they had become.

"Now they are all demons, never being able to reconcile with God." He paused, swallowing to wet his dry throat before continuing, but also for effect.

"Now as demons, they attempt to lead us, the creation of God, away from the right path. They test your faith in God, try to induce you to sin… that's why Matthew, don't touch it, don't talk to it." His voice had dropped low, but the warning was clear. As if to reiterate his point his father gripped his shoulder with a heavy hand.

"Y-yes father."

"Good. Beware that they can create fabrications of your greatest fears and desires. They can possess you with a single touch. They can take any form they wish in order to seduce victims. Their voices may whisper unwanted in your mind. With physical capabilities way beyond humans they can destroy any substance on earth. But God is always above them, all their power can be rendered useless by the almighty God. Items blessed by God can restrain them. That is why the prisons are soaked with holy water once a week."

_Greatest fears and desires…_

Why did all of father's warnings bring his mind to the prisoner? Was the demon already playing his tricks?

"Father, does that mean we cannot kill them?" The level tone in which he said 'kill' in confused him a little, usually he would be stuttering over such strong words. His father also looked surprised but quickly covered it and answered without any comment.

"Yes, we can banish them. Burning them will send them back to the flames of hell! For possessed people, the only way is to exorcise the demon from them so that at least their souls are saved and can reach the gates of heaven. Either way, they will burn."

"What if they weren't demons? What if a demon used someone as a scapegoat?"

The silence that invaded the conversation was tinged with shock and outrage from both sides. Matthew took a shaky step backwards, looking for escape even though he knew his father wouldn't do any physical harm to him.

_What was he saying? _

He was Matthew, timid and obedient, though he always questioned if the people his father imprisoned were really demons, he didn't go around blatantly challenging the ideas of the church. He was not going to be like his brother, he was not going to commit heresy. He chanced a quick look at his father and hesitated at what he saw. That heavy sigh, the re-adjusting of his glasses with a finger, his lips clenched in a flat line; his father was quickly losing all patience. Matthew waited silently, for it to all blow over without aggravating things further.

"How many times must I say this to make myself clear? Even if the demon is using them, they are still tainted by the demon, controlled by the demon into doing whatever crimes they have committed, and the only way to save their souls is to exorcise them! THEY WILL BURN! THAT DEMON WILL BURN!"

Matthew whimpered quietly, still not daring to say anything. Father was very patient, but when you pushed him too far, his anger was… not something you would like to experience. He looked to the ceiling for solace but the angels only seemed to taunt him more. _Heretic_, they sang, over and over again like a hymn with their beautiful voices.

"I have more important matters to attend to."

When Matthew finally deemed it safe enough to look at his father, all he saw was his receding back, taking long strides and deliberately heavy footfalls that rang out in the usual calm of the church.

* * *

><p>"<em>Demon! Worshipper of Satan!" Gilbert hissed, though the boy's voice was muffled he could hear every word clearly in his mind. Illuminated in the dim moonlight the boy's purple eyes glared at him in disdain, disgust and pity. Not even fear. Well the boy should fear him; he dug his knife into flesh, through the fabric and drawing a preliminary line of blood. Gilbert smirked at how the boy's eyes widened with surprise, pain and fear. Lazily he traced the tip of the knife in irregular circles as if considering where to stab. Perhaps something of a plea was forming on the boy's lips but Gilbert clamped them tighter and plunged the knife in. He let go of the boy's mouth, instead gripping him by the neck, pressed against the wall so that the body wouldn't slump down and he watched the boy die slowly. <em>

"_De… mon… wor…sa…an…" Even now the boy attempted to curse him with those words, even as his life gurgled out of his mouth in pretty crimson drops. As the hate finally faded from those violet eyes Gilbert dropped the body with limp arms. His strength seemed to have seeped away with that boy's life and he sank to the ground in shock. Shit. Fuck. Why did he-he do that?_

"_Demon! Murderer! Worshipper of Satan!" He froze at a familiar gruff and deep voice, it couldn't be? The albino whipped his head around to see his brother with the same hateful eyes, but a sharp piercing blue._

"_Nein! Bruder!" Not Ludwig as well. Beside his brother other figures were appearing, his damned father with the usual dirty accusations, his beautiful mother with betrayal marring her face- stop it! He clutched his hands to his ears but he could still hear them, the chant steadily rising in volume. The voices high and low were mixing, distorting until they were a single entity. Underneath all of that was a new voice, soft, clear, angelic, unmistakable. He watched horrified as Birdie took steps towards him, his violet eyes clouded with the same disgust as the other boy. _

"_Nein. Nein! NEIN!" This was not real. This is a dream. And he would destroy those hateful eyes. Gilbert lunged with the ferocity and desperation of a cornered beast, he couldn't stand those eyes, he just needed to get out of this nightmare, he-_

He woke to the shock of the cold night gasping a lungful of air. He pressed a hand to his head, _fuck that felt so real_. His heart still pounded painfully and his breathing was finally beginning to even out. He ran his hand through his hair, feeling the cold sweat and shivered at the cold he was starting to feel. Gilbert huddled his legs to his body, his arms keeping them in place as he tried to stop thinking about it and get back to sleep. The nightmare never completed itself but he knew what he would have done, as much as he wanted to deny it he knew he would have gouged those purple eyes out. He sighed, shutting his eyes and tilting his head back so that it inadvertently hit the hard wall but he ignored the throb.

_God, even if the world has forsaken me, please forgive me._

* * *

><p>Sleep never came but without the sun he had no idea what time of day it was. He had lay propped up in the corner of his cell for hours; his limbs were stiff and heavy. The hard and lumpy cobblestone floor didn't help matters or his sore arse. He sighed and shifted a little, trying to get more comfortable but it didn't make any difference. Giving up on that front he searched the prison for something interesting, something to distract himself with. His eyes had long grown used to the darkness, even with the light of the flickering candle that was threatening to blow out. Scratched onto the walls, he could see marks made by former prisoners; tallies, pictures, sometimes even words. He idly wondered when he would resort to passing his days like that. Oddly it also reminded him of the journal he used to keep, filled with his ugly handwriting and misspelled words, he wrote in it methodically every day. Now it would be a pile of ashes. A dejected whine from his stomach reminded him of the hunger gnawing away at him and the food Birdie had brought. Reaching for the bowl, he grabbed the cold ceramic and started slurping the soup down. It had lost all warmth and a layer of frozen oil floated on the surface, he couldn't place what it tasted of and the meat was probably generously 'donated' leftovers from the butcher. But food was food; he'd eaten much worse while living out on the streets. And that Birdie, was he stupid or something, or just that naïve? He didn't know anything, tucked away in a stupid little village and learning everything from the bible. He's never seen the real world. Yet somehow the boy's hope spurred on his own will for survival. But that nightmare, if Birdie became like the Ivan boy, if his usually kind eyes change then he might lose himself again and the thought of losing control hung as an ever present threat.<p>

"Hey, that boy was so adorable wasn't he? Cute as a button I'd say."

Gilbert turned his attention to the voice, glad of a distraction and curious as to who would be flinging out comments about Birdie as if they were at a ball, or at least not in prison. Probably one of those eternally cheerful idiots.

"Are you dead? Say something."

The voice was back; it was the usual lilt and clipped tones of the English but with a curious foreign accent. And suddenly a wet projectile hit him in the head, oil oozed down the side of his face and he realised it was from the soup. Disgusting. He scowled, whoever this person was, he was going to make them regret it.

"Verdamnt! You DO NOT throw food at the awesome me!"

It would have been much more impressive if he'd jumped to his feet, but as he struggled to get up his body protested with pain. His tattered shirt appeared to have been glued to his back with dried blood and every move tugged on the scabs. He cursed at his fucked up captors; did they really have to have so much fun beating him?

Gilbert groped around his half-finished soup for a chunk of meat, they were positively clogging up the soup before and now he couldn't find a thing. Then his fingers brushed against that familiar barky texture and he had his sweet revenge. His target had moved into the flickering light cast by the candles and was spluttering in disgust as well. Surprisingly it was a girl with short blonde shoulder length hair and green eyes, and she was still giggling at him, though her voice had sounded somewhat manly. Gilbert still retained a slight sense of chivalry and it made him uncomfortable that he was attacking a girl, though it was pretty much justified since she started it. He decided to ignore his nagging conscience.

"Kesese, how do you like that?"

"Urgh, my dress is now even more ruined! Really, I was just trying to get your attention! So, let's talk."

What was with all the pauses in her sentences? The girl sure spoke weirdly. But nevertheless she seemed friendly enough and why would she be here in prison? The dress she wore was covered in frills and bows indicated some sort of wealth or high class upbringing. It seems he was imprisoned with a bunch of strange morons.

"So," He drawled, "who are you?" He supposed basic introductions would come first. "Why're you stuck-"

"I'm Feliks, shameless cross-dressing homosexual~ Nice to meet you!" The reply came in rapid fire, cutting off the end of his other question. He scowled at her nerve but decided to overlook that.

"Well nice to meet you-_wait_." Did he hear correctly?

"Cross-dressing homosexual?" Gilbert stared at Feliks again. Now that he knew what he was looking for, he could see the flat chest and wider than usual shoulders that would give away the fact that he was indeed a man. Homosexual? Hnn that certainly explained things a lot.

The albino snorted, "no wonder you're wallowing in prison with me."

"I was just being myself!" Feliks retorted indignantly. It wasn't much of an argument, more of some statement made by a guy with hands on hips and a childish pout that made it difficult to take seriously.

_Being yourself_... Gilbert laughed; a short harsh bark. He wasn't sure why he was laughing, the notion was just hilarious. The confused but slightly afraid look on Felik's face told him that the guy was wondering if he was sane. What scared Gilbert was that he wasn't sure if he was either.

"Idealistic fools like you aren't going to survive in this world. Being yourself is just going to get you killed."

* * *

><p><em>Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine! <em>

_O what a foretaste of glory divine! _

_Heir of salvation, purchase of God, _

_Born of His Spirit, washed in His blood. _

_This is my story, this is my song, _

_Praising my Saviour all the day long; _

_This is my story, this is my song, _

_Praising my Saviour all the day long. _

_Perfect submission, perfect delight, _

_Visions of rapture now burst on my sight; _

_Angels descending bring from above _

_Echoes of mercy, whispers of love. _

_This is my story, this is my song, _

_Praising my Saviour all the day long; _

_This is my story, this is my song, _

_Praising my Saviour all the day long. _

_Perfect submission, all is at rest; _

_I in my Saviour am happy and blest, _

_Watching and waiting, looking above, _

_Filled with His goodness, lost in His love._

The words and what they suggested left Matthew with an uneasy feel. _Submission_, every time he sang the word it was if he grew a little smaller and was nothing but a pawn in the grand scheme of things. Somehow they reminded him of Father, if he just followed along everything would be at peace. _Perfect submission_, he stumbled over the words, almost forgetting where he was but managed to pull his thoughts together for the final line. _Filled with His goodness, lost in His love_, the last note was held by the choir and organ, Matthew's voice rising above everyone else's. There they were suspended in the end before fading to silence. Enthusiastic applaud and some standing ovations greeted their performance, seeming a little out of place in the holy setting of the church. Matthew smiled breathless, face rosy from exertion, his qualms forgotten.

John Williams smiled proudly at his son, stifling an impolite yawn at the same time. He had spent the night staring sleepless at their family portrait; him, Matthew, Jeanne and Alfred. He had wondered if he had been too harsh on Matthew, if he might have run away like Alfred. But before dinner Matthew had arrived same as usual and started preparing. He didn't say a thing and neither did his son. Perhaps it was a matter of pride. If Jeanne was still here she would know what to do, she would probably smack him over the head and smile with her beautiful blue eyes, the eyes that Alfred now had…

And if Jeanne was here Alfred wouldn't have fallen, wouldn't have been corrupted by that witch Arthur. _Village healer? The poisons that wretch fed Jeanne probably hastened her passing instead_. How dare Alfred be enraptured by the devil servant's charms? At the very least he would make sure Matthew is safe, because Matthew was good and pure and sweet not like Alfred the damned fool. If he has to hasten the demon's execution date so be it. And in the end they would be all together again in Heaven, and if he redeems himself, perhaps Alfred would be there too.

He concluded the service with a prayer, the words reverberating around the church without a thought on his behalf. The habits were ingrained and humans were creature of habit were they not?

_Ave Maria, gratia plena._

_Dominus cum te._

_Benedicta tu inter mulieres,_

_et benedictus fructus ventris tui_

_Jesus._

_Sancta Maria, Mater Dei,_

_ora pro nobis peccatoribus,_

_Nunc et in hora mortis nostrae._

_Amen._

He prayed to the Holy Mary and to Jeanne as well. As the final few trickled out the door he was left utterly alone in the gold and grandeur of his chapel. _I miss you Jeanne._

* * *

><p>Matthew shut his eyes as the bright contrast of the sunlight outside dazzled his sight into dizzy black spots, opening them cautiously as they slowly adjusted. The weather was fine and their cupboards were empty so he supposed he would have to go down into town again and buy some food and then he had his prison duties after to attend to. He would see the prisoner again. His face flushed with twisted excitement, he would be disobeying father; he would be speaking to a demon.<p>

"You are Matthew I am assuming?"

"Y-yes?" He almost died from shame but remembered that humans couldn't possibly mind read and that surely he didn't say anything aloud. But never in a thousand years would he have imagined that the two people standing around would be waiting for him. The man stood ram rod straight and managed to look at Matthew with his chin tilted up even though he seemed shorter in stature. Even the woman beside the stranger seemed as tall as him whilst being precariously balanced on heels. His dark hair was slicked back even though quite a few strands defied this style and he pushed his glasses up to its proper place in a gesture that was so familiar to Matthew yet so foreign with the stranger's slender pianist fingers. They were clean and cut and obviously had never touched dirt or a peasant's tools. The woman was dressed with too much frills and unnecessary bows and she tugged at them with gloved hands, occasionally, in annoyance. She didn't quite seem belong in it. Either way the couple was of higher status than he.

"G-good morning." Again he cursed himself for that damned stutter. The upper classes would rarely have anything to do with people like him so what were these people doing here? He didn't know if he should look away like proper etiquette or face them as it would be rude not to pay attention if one was speaking but then they were from the higher classes so surely it would be safer to- oh but he didn't know and-

"There's no need to be afraid dear!" Matthew was engulfed in a disconcerting sea of colourful fabric and he couldn't breathe considering where his face was being shoved against. Soft perfumed flesh and the metal ribs of her corset, he could not think clearly at all. It was so very warm and was like mother and oh god it was the strange lady. He blanched at the reality and attempted to break away but her grip was surprisingly tight and it was so much easier-and nicer, to stay. His salvation came in the form of her husband who was watching horrified, only to dart his eyes around and make sure they were alone. Why if anyone saw this unladylike display of affection they would be the laughing stock of any further social gatherings until their peers found a more amusing source of entertainment beside their mockery.

"Elizabeta, please, just stop this nonsense, you are embarrassing the poor boy." The man tapped his cane impatiently, the only visible form of his annoyance in his barely noticeable eyebrow twitches. The woman, Elizabeta, was slow to let go and playfully batted at her husband.

"Aw come on _Roderich_, there's no need to be so stuffy, Matthew enjoyed it just fine and there's no one around watching." She hooked an arm underneath Roderich's but he only huffed and looked away. "Don't tell me you are still bemoaning your marriage to a merchant's daughter, I can act perfectly ladylike if I want to be." She flicked out a fan with deadly precision and proceeded to fan herself in a haughty manner, green eyes serious beneath their banter.

"Erzi! Don't be like that; you know I don't regret anything."

On and on their loving bickering went and Matthew had blended into the scenery. Why did it always end like this? Even if they had come specifically to speak to him they always forget him.

"U-um excuse me?" No reaction of course.

"Excuse me?" He attempted a little louder.

He tried even though he knew they would not hear; it surprised him how he still bothered. Before only Alfred or Father would hear him under the rest of the noises and sometimes they couldn't either. They say there is no harm in trying, but every time he fails a little bit of hope is hacked away and surely he would run out some day. Today he had given up. Matthew started walking towards the small town in the distance, his shoes scuffing the ground and the noises so painfully loud and obvious. He stumbled, not watching his steps but never falling, he just wanted to get away from them, the likes of those people. He was halfway down the hill before they noticed and when they called out he pretended not to hear or care and he did neither. When liquid dripped down his face and grew splotchy stains on his shirt he pretended.

**A/N:**

**Why did I end on such a depressing tone? And is there an abnormally large amount of line breaks?**

**Anyway, sorry for about four month's lack of update…? I really wanted to post it yesterday but by the time I was done the other comp was already off and it takes so long for it to start up again… I really need a new comp. **

**And I'm really really sorry! I wrote up the third chapter about right after the second chapter was posted and sent it over to Nyx for her to add stuff. But she was really busy and after a few weeks of being unable to edit it she handed over authorship of the fic to me. Before I sort of wrote the bones and she fleshed it out and after switching it around the second chapter we thought it would work better this way… except I think I'm really bad at fleshing things out and so I've been putting things off and editing and rewriting chunks till I'm finally happy with it (though tomorrow when I read it I'll probably be dissatisfied again) but I hope you do not notice an obvious drop in quality from the previous chapters T^T. I also get distracted really easily so when I was researching I ended up with twenty something tabs about hetalia or the Victorian era OTL and hours of time gone… And sorry about the long author's note, I felt inclined to explain our lateness…so, please read and enjoy! And hopefully review?**

**-Sunny ^^**

*** I know the prayers are supposed to be in Latin and all but I supposed a hymn might be okay in English and I kind of needed you guys to know what it meant and the second one is Hail Mary.**


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